


Like the Back of My Hand

by Ripuku



Category: Dishonored
Genre: M/M, Soul Mate AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-04
Updated: 2013-07-03
Packaged: 2017-12-17 15:24:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/869053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ripuku/pseuds/Ripuku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where everyone is born with their soul mates name on their hand Corvo Attano lives a lonely existence with his blank skin.</p><p>That is until the day a certain lovecraftian whale god yanks him into the void and leaves his mark there.</p><p>Let the wooing commence. Rating will go up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like the Back of My Hand

**Author's Note:**

> For a friend's birthday, and a kink meme post. I'M LIKE A MONTH LATE BUT IT'S HERE AND ON GOING WHOOOO

Being blank handed is a lonely existence, but a way of life suitable for one in the position of Lord Protector. He has only one person he needs worry about besides himself, and that certainly makes his job easier. His time alone, however, is spent in solitude, staring at his blank left hand, wondering if it means he’ll always be alone. Others like him are scarce; he knows none personally. Those who are marked are afraid of him, rightfully so, for an unmarked hand means that there is no one in the world meant for him, and a lifetime alone is not something many can imagine or understand.

Every day he wakes before the sun, and is reminded as he readies himself for the day that there is perhaps no one in the world for him; it is not as though he can ignore his own hand. But he thinks of the people he looks out for, the people he loves in his heart even if their names do not appear on his hand, and that makes it a little easier. He strives never to simply go through the motions of a day, but to make each action mean something, each moment, for if they do not mean something now, then they never will. There is no one else his actions can mean something for, so they must matter to him.

He takes genuine joy in the moments he can play games with Emily, when Jessamine holds tea in the gazebo, chasing the spirited child around the garden, tossing her into the air when he catches her to her delight, Jessamine’s laughter, and the chagrin of the other guards. He stays up finishing the mundane parts of his work long after the others have gone to their beds, making sure each of his reports is as complete as he can make them, for they are not only a record for the safety and upkeep of the tower, but they are also a record for himself to look back upon in the future, so he’ll remember the job he’d done, and be proud of it.

Tonight, he finishes his report and sets down his pen, letting out a long sigh, his gaze drifting toward the packed travel chests at the foot of his bed. Tomorrow morning he leaves for the other isles. Gristol has been plagued, and nothing they do has brought a cure. He is to go plead for aid from the others. Jessamine is reluctant, Emily is downright against his going, but for them, he’ll go. The plague must not spread farther. His gun and sword can halt attackers and those who would bring harm to them, but bullet and blade cannot stop a plague.

The trip is longer than he can bear, and no good news comes of it. His fears grow with each passing day, and he yearns for his home. The others on the boat are superstitious, and his blank left hand does nothing to reassure their fears of curse. He keeps to himself, which does not help the situation, but trying to associate would do little good either. When they reach Gristol again, Corvo feels relief, eager to see Jessamine and Emily, though the feeling is dampened by the rustle of the reports in his jacket, their bad news echoing in his mind. He forgets for a moment the bad in exchange for a game with Emily, doing as he always does, living each moment, pushing back the unease.

But the unease will not stay away for long, and though he has no name to fade into his skin, it does not stop his heart from breaking as he holds Jessamine in his arms, blood pouring over his hands with no way of stopping it. And just as he could not stop the blood, he cannot stop the accusations, and is swept along in this conspiracy like a fallen leaf in the Wrenhaven, spun head over heels with no idea which way is up or out. His time in prison is mostly reflection, for there are no moments to live by in this place. He goes through the motions for the first time in his life, and that is more pain than any of the tortures. He sits in his shackles, turning his hands over and over again, wondering if her name was never to be marked upon him, why does he hear her voice endlessly? Since there are no moments to live by in Coldridge, he must simply bear them through. The terrible food goes into his mouth, he tries to taste it as little as possible. Three times a day he makes himself get up and walk around his cell, for sitting idle for too long is not good for him. He wishes for a breath of fresh air, or a glimpse of sunlight, but Coldridge is as it is named. Cold, dark, and unfeeling. Corvo huddles on his bed at night, torn between suffering the bone aching chill that settles over the prison at night, or sleeping through it and waking with Jessamine’s voice ringing in his ears, her dying wishes falling to pieces around him as he sits trapped in this place, doomed to die, without a single thing he could dream of doing for Emily. He counts two days now until his execution.

He doesn’t really need to keep track for himself, the entire prison has done a good job counting for him, but it is one more thing to do in the waiting hours, he supposes. Burrows has tried one last time to get him to sign the confession, but that is something Corvo swears on his life that his name is not, and never will be, for, just as there is no hand for his name either.

He goes back to his cell, resolve crumbling away where no one can see. The confession in the torture chamber is more than he can bear. Why would these men do such horrible things to the Kaldwin women? They didn’t deserve that.

Emily…

He can only pray that she is alive, both for the sake of Dunwall’s future, and for the name of the young man on her hand.


End file.
